After Survival Comes Life
by BehindDamonEyes
Summary: One-shot response to the finale of Series 7. Spoiler Alert. Sam's perspective and a little angsty. One bad word. We all have different ways of dealing with sorrow, and Sam has had more than his share of loss.


_**Disclaimer:**_Supernatural belongs to Kripke, the borrowed quote to the writers (and Crowley), and I only wish I owned Dean … and Sam. I make no money on this, and have no money to give. The other quote is Dostoyevsky, Sam knows why ...

**AN:** This is my first Supernatural story, please be kind and honest. I would like to improve. Spoilers for Season 7 finale.

**After Survival Comes Life**

"_You are well and truly on your own ..."_

The words echoed in his head as Sam stood in the empty lab. Dean was gone. Again. Bobby was gone. Kevin, Castiel, even Meg – all gone. Hell, every support he had ever had was gone. He was anchorless and rudderless. Dean was gone.

He walked out of the building in a numb haze, stepping over the hacked bodies, black ooze and puddles of borax. He looked impassively at the Impala wreathed in wreckage and felt an odd hitch in his breath. Dean would hate to see her stuck in Dick's sign, like a bone stuck in the craw. Bullet holes and broken windows. Dean was gone.

Tears trickled down his face and his chest tightened, as if the air was slowly being squeezed from him. He walked slowly past the Impala, favoring his left leg slightly, and continued down the driveway to the shattered entry gate. Dean was gone.

It just didn't scan. Survive Hell, survive the Apocalypse, survive death time and time again, survive demons, angels and Sam himself … and some two-bit chomper manages to take Dean down with him?!

"_You are well and truly on your own ..."_

Sam managed to make it to the main road before he collapsed, hyperventilating, as he realized that Dean really was gone. No body to make a deal for, or even bury; he was gone. A yawning emptiness seemed to swallow Sam's breath as he tried to make sense of his own survival. He forced himself to get up and walk further down the road to the POS car Dean left waiting for them, parked on the shoulder. A detached voice in his mind reminded him that he needed a tow truck for the Impala. Bobby would have picked the car up with his tow truck, but Bobby was dead … and Dean was gone. His hand shook as he punched numbers into a throw-away phone. "Directory Assistance …."

"Um, yeah, I need the number for a tow truck for ..." he paused, unable to remember where he was for the moment. By the time he came back to himself, the call was long over. He called again and this time was able to get a wrecker's number.

He paid twice the going rate, in cash, for a tow with no questions to a local body shop/scrapyard. He negotiated with the owner for parts and a place to work in return for free labor. He found a small no-tell motel on the outskirts of town and paid a week in advance. It wasn't until he actually was in the room that he realized he didn't need two doubles. Sam wearily toppled face first onto the nearest bed and succumbed to exhaustion and grief. Dean was gone.

The morning sun shining through the dingy motel window assaulted Sam's swollen and reddened eyes. He blearily realized the drapes were open, the windows and door were unsalted, and he was still in yesterday's clothing.

"Shit." The word just hung in the empty air, devoid of any heat, said more as a defeated sigh than as an exclamation. He slowly moved and stiffly sat up on the rock-hard bed. Sam ran his hands through his hair and briefly rested his forehead on the heels of his hands.

What next? An endless road of hunting, following the broken dream of Dean's family business? He had done it once before during the hellish six months that Loki/Gabriel had concocted. Then again, during the nightmare time after Dean was taken to to hell. When he allowed himself to get sucked into Ruby's bloody control. Not even a Ruby or Crowley to give him some direction. Family business? There was no family left. Normalcy? What a joke.

Dean. Was. Gone.

Maybe he really was 'extraordinarily, passionately, in love with suffering.' What else could explain his continued existence? He shrugged the thoughts away as he stood and stretched.

Take a shower. Brush teeth. Clean clothes. Check the weapons. Clean the guns. Sharpen the knives. Fix the Impala. He didn't need to think, he had work to do.

FIN


End file.
